Never was heard such a bawling as these unfortunate wights kept up. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. ‘Not entirely English then. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. Mere formality. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. I am too weak to aid you. Published by Elizabeth Bailey 2012 www.
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